


Focus

by CatWingsAthena



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ADHD, ADHD!Dean, Case Fic, Gen, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Season/Series 05, Sorry I'm terrible, author does not have ADHD, just consulted heavily with her sister who does, methylphenidate, or is that ADHDean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatWingsAthena/pseuds/CatWingsAthena
Summary: The music. Was it always soloud? Dean couldhearthe music, in a way he couldn’t usually. He couldseethe road,feelthe wheel under his hands. Everything felt sharper and clearer, like he’d been living in a fog all his life and suddenly had it taken away.Or, the Winchesters are on a hunt that could turn tragic--but Sam might have a solution. Meanwhile, Cas has a... peculiar plan for preventing the end of the world as we know it. Things are about to get interesting--and Dean might just discover something about himself that he never expected.Set mid Season 5, after "Changing Channels" but before "Abandon All Hope."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaylee_To_My_Strawberries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaylee_To_My_Strawberries/gifts).



> Let it be known that this is gift-fic for my sister, known on this site as Kaylee_To_My_Strawberries, who has ADHD and sees a lot of herself in Dean. Sis, you're the best thing that could ever have happened to me. As I said in the tags, I do not have ADHD, but I leaned heavily on my sister's and bio-dad's descriptions of what their lives and experiences with ADHD and ADHD meds are like. If I screwed something up, please let me know in the comments. Content warnings for psychiatric medication, swearing, and mild gore, as well as the offscreen death of a dog (and some humans, but you were expecting that). Enjoy!

“I have something that might help,” said Cas, who definitely hadn’t been in the backseat of the Impala a half-second earlier. (Or at least Dean thought he hadn’t been. He’d been pretty zoned, driving down the road with the music nice and loud, lost in his none-too-pleasant thoughts. Was it possible that Cas had been there, just staring at them... no, he wasn’t going to think about that.)

“ _ Jesus _ , Cas,” yelled Dean as he recovered from a swerve. “A little warning?”

“I’ve discovered a possible way to prevent Michael and Lucifer from possessing you--”

“We know how to keep them from possessing us,” Dean interrupted. “We don’t say yes.”

“--And to make you less appealing targets for possession. If all goes well, they may stop hunting you,” Cas continued.

“How will they know?” Sam piped up from the passenger’s side. “They can’t sense us--thanks for that, by the way.”

“I should be able to get the word out,” said Cas.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Dean. “If this--whatever it is will help, I’m down. But won’t they just try something else?” 

“Most likely, yes,” said Cas. “But our options at this point are... limited.”

“We’re not going to say yes!” shouted Dean, at the same time as Sam said, “what is it?” They gave each other a Look. (Despite his long experience observing Creation, Cas had never been able to decipher Winchester Looks. He could only conclude that they were communicating nonverbally based on years of shared experience, which was really rather obvious. He supposed it was their closest equivalent of, as Dean called it, “angel radio”.)

“Methylphenidate,” said Cas.

“What?” the Winchesters said at the same time.

“I recently discovered that certain substances can interact with a host body on a cellular level to make control of it by an outside force difficult or impossible. Beings as powerful as Michael and Lucifer  _ might _ be able to possess you anyway, but certainly not use your bodies for battle. Methylphenidate is one such substance. It’s only a temporary fix, but it should buy us some time. I have some here. This should be the correct dosage for each of you,” said Cas, pressing small orange bottles into their hands. “Don’t mix them up.”

Sam stared at him. “Cas, how did you...”

“Don’t ask.”

Dean looked down at the orange container in his hand. “What  _ is _ this stuff?”

“It’s a stimulant. It’s used to treat ADHD,” said Sam.

Dean stared at him. “How did you even  _ know _ that?”

“Because it’s also used as a study drug. It was actually a big problem at Stanford,” said Sam, inspecting the bottle. Then he snorted. “Look at this--‘this drug may impair the ability to operate a vehicle,  _ vessel _ , or machinery. Use care until you become familiar with its effects.’ Do you think they know?”

Dean, who’d stopped paying attention around “may impair the ability to operate a vehicle,” didn’t respond. “Dean?” said Sam.

“Huh? Oh. If this shit stops me from driving, I’ll take my chances with Michael,” Dean grumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. Then he glanced at the backseat.

Cas was gone.

“Well then,” said Dean, “bottoms up.”

Dean pulled over, and they each shook out a single pill from their respective containers and swallowed it down.

.................

**Two Days Earlier**

“Dean, check this out,” said Sam.

They were sitting in a motel room just outside St. Paul, Minnesota. Dean was clinging to his coffee cup for dear life in between bites of his donut, while Sam sat on his bed with his laptop, scrolling with an intent look on his face.

“On my way,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of donut, already making his way over. “This better be good.”

“I think I found something,” said Sam. “Serial killer, they’re calling it--ripped throats. Might be our kind of thing.”

“Vamp?”

“Maybe, but get this--I did some cross-referencing, and the victims all lived in high-rise apartments,” said Sam.

“Let me guess, unscalable, doors locked from the inside?” said Dean.

“I couldn’t find out,” replied Sam.

“Where is this?” asked Dean.

“Bellevue, Washington. If we leave now, about three days’ drive,” said Sam.

“Could use a good old-fashioned case,” said Dean as he started packing.

................

Shortly after his first dose of methylphenidate, Dean was pleased to discover that he could drive just fine, thank you very much. (Not that he’d ever doubted it. Nothing could knock him out of tune with his Baby. Still, it was nice to have it confirmed.) As nice as it was to know that, something seemed a bit--off. What was it? Oh. The music. Was it always so  _ loud _ ? Dean could  _ hear _ the music, in a way he couldn’t usually. He could  _ see _ the road,  _ feel _ the wheel under his hands. Everything felt sharper and clearer, like he’d been living in a fog all his life and suddenly had it taken away. And the music was loud. He liked it, but it was distracting. He leaned over to turn it down.

“Dean?” said Sam with a slightly worried look on his face, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Dean. Which, for once, was relatively true. The world was still coming to an end, but at that exact moment, nothing was wrong in the world of Dean Winchester.

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. “You wanna stop for dinner?” he asked. He seemed hesitant, though, like he wasn't actually hungry. Which made no sense, since they’d skipped lunch by mutual agreement (making do with the protein bars Sam kept stashed in the Impala at all times), but there it was.

“Sure,” Dean replied, a bit concerned.

After a dinner during which Sam only picked at his salad (Dean had no problems with his bacon cheeseburger), they got back in the car and headed for Bellevue. A few hours later, they arrived in a motel parking lot. After checking in, Sam sat down with his laptop. A few minutes later, he looked up.

“Apparently, not being hungry is a side effect of methylphenidate. Also, since it’s a stimulant, it doesn’t mix well with other stimulants, so no coffee,  _ Dean _ \--”

“Yes?” said Dean, snapping his head up.

“You’re supposed to take it in the morning and it wears off by nighttime so you can sleep--”

“Won’t that be a problem for us?” Dean said.

“Hopefully the rumors will be as effective as the real thing. If they start showing up in our dreams, we’ll start taking it full-time, but I’d rather not go no sleep unless we have to, so we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Sam.

The methylphenidate had definitely worn off. The fog was back around the edges of Dean’s perception, and he was struggling to keep his attention on Sam’s words. As he focused on focusing on what Sam was saying, he started paying attention to his efforts to focus instead of to the actual words, and snapped back to realize he’d missed things. That was nothing new--it was how Dean had felt listening to people talk his whole life--but he hadn’t realized until it crept back in that the methylphenidate had largely taken it away. Really, it was no wonder people at Stanford had a problem with this stuff. (Because everybody who took it felt this way. Right?)

On that thought, Dean went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Please note that this chapter contains some mild gore and an allusion to thoughts of wanting to die. Hope you enjoy!

Sam awoke to the sound of Dean brushing his teeth.

Quietly, he sat up and got out of bed, then walked over to the sink.

“Mrnin’, Smmy,” Dean mumbled around his toothbrush.

“Have you taken your pill yet?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded. 

Once the sink was free, Sam brushed his teeth and took his own pill, a small reddish oval. Then he opened his computer and clicked over to a local news site. He stopped short. “Dean,” he called, “You’re gonna want to hear this. There’s been another one.”

“You’re shitting me,” Dean intoned.

“Nope. Evelyn Munroe, forty-three, found dead by her husband in her downtown Bellevue apartment early this morning with her throat ripped out. Apparently, he was sleeping right next to her and never heard a thing,” Sam stated.

“So we’re up to four,” said Dean.

“They’re telling people to lock their doors and keep their windows closed,” Sam continued. He said the last words with a note of puzzlement in his voice. “The vics lived in high-rise apartments, all within the downtown area. Why would they tell people to close their windows unless--”

“The windows were open,” Dean finished. “We might have path of entry. But what vamp scales a high-rise when there are meals on the ground?” Dean asked.

“We need to talk to the husband,” said Sam. “He said he was sleeping next to her and didn’t wake up. What attacks that quietly? Could be him.”

“Could be,” said Dean. “But that doesn’t explain the other vics.”

“So, first we go check out the scene, then we talk to the husband?” said Sam.

Dean was already heading for the door.

................

They arrived as the earliest wave of inspections was finishing. After pulling their usual FBI act and answering a few questions from the disgruntled state police, they were in.

Dean whistled quietly. “This place is nice.”

“Dean,” hissed Sam. “Focus.”

“Right,” said Dean. “No EMF... hey, check this out.” Dean was standing by the window, which was indeed open. Clinging to the latch were several strands of long, dark hair.

“The roots are still attached," said Sam.

“Yanked out, then,” muttered Dean. “No marks on the sill.”

“None?” said Sam skeptically. “Let me see.” He looked at the sill and down the building for a long time. “You’re right. Nothing,” he finally said in confusion.

“This gap is pretty small,” said Dean, examining the window. “Most people-sized things would have a hard time fitting through. There would definitely be marks.”

“So, we’re looking for something small, with teeth and long, dark hair, that can either climb buildings or fly,” said Sam in a somewhat sardonic tone.

“Basically,” said Dean.

“Now let’s go pay Mr. Munroe a visit,” said Sam.

..................

Mr. Munroe was a small man with dark hair and a moustache. He had a constantly twitching left eye and looked to be on the verge of tears.

“I don’t understand why I have to go through this again,” he said. “I already told the state police everything.”

“We’re sorry to make you relive this, Mr. Munroe,” said Sam, “But this case has moved to federal jurisdiction, and we need to collect your statement one more time for the Bureau’s records.”

Mr. Munroe sighed.

“I woke up around two in the morning. I don’t know why. I rolled over, and there was this... wetness... on the bed, just under my shoulder... I reached over and turned on the light to see what it was, and I-- I saw my wife--” he broke off.

“Take your time,” said Dean. “What did you see?”

Mr. Munroe shuddered, wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued.

“Her neck was...  _ open _ . There was blood everywhere. There was-- there was blood on  _ me _ \--” He stopped talking, his words cut off by a sob.

“Did you notice anything... unusual?” asked Dean.

“Like what?” asked Mr. Munroe.

“Weird smells, flickering lights... that sort of thing?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Mr. Munroe, looking confused.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Munroe,” said Sam. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.” He handed over a card with a number on it.

“Just find out who did this to my Evie,” said Mr. Munroe.

“We’ll do our best,” said Dean.

Once they got outside, they looked at each other.

“I don’t think it’s him,” said Dean.

“On what grounds?” asked Sam.

“He just doesn’t seem the killing type. Besides, how would you account for the hair? And for the other victims? I’m telling you, it’s not him.”

“Well then,” said Sam. “We need to see the body.”

...............

Naturally, the morgue was housed in a hospital basement with flickering fluorescent lights and long, eerie hallways. Bluffing their way in had been easy enough. Now they just needed to get a good look at Mrs. Munroe’s injury.

Mrs. Munroe’s neck was torn open, similar to a vampire bite. Except... “Oh shit,” whispered Sam. He continued in a normal voice. “These marks were made by”--he glanced at the coroner, then at Dean--“human teeth.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asked. Sam, barely perceptibly, nodded.

“I’m sure,” he said.

“Awful, isn’t it?” said the coroner. “You came to the same conclusion I did. How someone could do that to another human being...” He shook his head.

“Are any of the other victims still here?” asked Sam, a little too quickly.

“One,” replied the coroner. “Elijah Marcus. The others have been released to the families.”

“Could we see him, too?” asked Dean.

“Of course,” said the coroner. “Right this way.”

The wound on Elijah Marcus’ neck perfectly matched that on Evelyn Munroe’s.

It was a relief to get away from the flickering lights and disturbing possibilities of the basement.

“We’re not looking for a human,” said Dean. “No human could scale those walls and fit through that window without marking the sill.”

“I’m going to the library,” said Sam, “to see if this has ever happened here before.”

“Dude,” said Dean. “This isn’t some small town. That’s gonna take  _ forever _ .”

“Which is why you’re coming with me,” Sam replied.

Dean groaned.

..................

Normally, Dean hated research with a passion.

He’d never disclose how  _ much _ he hated it, because he knew he had to pull his weight, but in truth, the sight of a box of papers filled him with a deep dread worse than nearly anything he’d experienced when actually in mortal peril. He did it anyway, though, because Winchesters didn't back down. Besides, the work went faster with two people, so they could potentially save more lives. None of which meant that research didn’t suck out loud.

Currently, however, he’d been doing research--the old-fashioned sort-through-old-newspapers kind, even--for nearly three hours, and he  _ wasn’t _ longing for the sweet release of death (the proper, cessation-of-existence kind. Not the shit that happens when you actually die). That was beyond weird. Not to mention, his mind had hardly been wandering at all--oh sure, there was a bit of when-are-we-getting-out-of-here, and the odd thought here and there about pretty women, and that odd rattle Baby had developed that he should really take a look at, and that scene from  _ Dr. Sexy, M.D. _ where the guy comes in with part of some IKEA furniture jammed through his chest, and quite a few thoughts about the Apocalypse (always), but for the most part, he’d actually been concentrating on his work. What was up with that? This methylphenidate stuff was amazing.

Eventually, though, Dean’s stomach got the better of him. “Break for dinner?” he suggested.

“ _ You _ can,” said Sam. “I’m gonna keep working.” He held up a protein bar he’d stashed in the pocket of his hoodie.

“You’d better eat that,” said Dean. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yes, mom.”

Dean left.

An hour later, Sam’s phone buzzed. INCOMING CALL.

He picked up, and his heart stopped.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was skimming through a story about a man who’d been murdered in his bed (not right, bashed on the head) when his phone rang. He picked up, annoyed. He was in a  _ library _ . Dean knew that. This had better be important.

“Sammy,” said the voice on the other end, and all traces of irritation vanished in an instant. Dean’s voice was  _ wrong _ . He sounded almost... afraid?

“What is it?” he asked.

“Come home quick,” Dean said, his breath grating past his words. “I think I’ve been cursed.”

“On my way,” said Sam, leaving the papers strewn over the table and near-sprinting to the exit. It was around a mile from the library to their motel. Dean had Baby, so he’d have to run. As he did so, Sam thought about what might be happening in that room.  _ If it’s witchcraft, no way I get there fast enough _ , he realized. A conversation echoed in his mind. A promise.  _ We’ll just bring you back. _ If the worst happened, maybe the angels would bring Dean back, maybe he’d still be okay ( _ pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay) _ . Dean  _ had _ to be okay.

When Sam finally burst through the door, Dean was frantically tearing the room apart. From the state of the room, he’d been searching for a while, and not in an organized fashion.

Then Sam’s eyes fell on an empty coffee cup.

Sam’s shoulders relaxed. He took a deep breath and started laughing.

“Dude!” exclaimed Dean. “What the fuck?”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam breathed. “You’re not cursed. It’s the coffee.”

“What?”

“Coffee and methylphenidate don’t mix--they’re both stimulants,” Sam explained.

“And you didn’t think to  _ tell _ me that?” asked Dean incredulously.

“I did--last night. Guess you weren’t paying attention,” said Sam.

Dean flopped down on his bed and curled slightly in on himself. “This feels like that time I got ghost sickness.” He paused. “Early stages,” he clarified.

And,  _ wow _ . If Dean was making comparisons to  _ that _ , it had to be  _ bad _ .

“The methylphenidate should be wearing off soon,” said Sam. “You just gotta ride it out until then.”

Dean nodded. Then he rolled off the bed and started pacing. 

Sam hated to see Dean like this. He knew he’d screwed up big-time. He knew there was no way he could really make it right. But he’d had enough of being a shitty brother for one lifetime, thank you very much. Right now, if he couldn't fix this, at least he could help.

“What do you need?” asked Sam.

Dean was silent.

“Okay,” said Sam, “let’s make this easier. Music on or off?”

“Off,” Dean muttered.

“Do you want me to leave or stay here?”

Dean just kept pacing. He wouldn’t look at Sam.

“Okay,” said Sam. “I’m going to sit right here and do some research. Holler if you need anything.”

Dean gave a short, sharp nod.

Sam sat down on his bed and opened his laptop. He figured his silent presence might provide some comfort without being overwhelming. He opened the victims’ Facebook pages and started looking for connections.

Dean’s mind was split into several levels. On one level was a constant chant of  _ I’m gonna die I’m gonna die I’m gonna die _ . On another, he was starting to get frustrated. He wanted this to be  _ over _ , already. On another, he was annoyed with himself for being so dramatic. It was just  _ coffee _ , after all. He’d handled a lot worse. Still, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to run five miles or curl up into a little ball and cry ( _ baby gonna cry? _ ). Part of him wanted to yell at Sam to  _ get out _ , but honestly, most of him was glad Sam was there. He felt like he could easily be lost in his own racing thoughts, right about now. Sam was an anchor, keeping him fixed to one point. Just as long as he didn’t try to talk.

When the methylphenidate finally wore off, Dean went to bed.

.................

_ It was a cloudy night. The noise of the city was a constant hum, even on the outskirts. Silently, two figures crept toward the house, the older leading, the younger following behind. When they reached the window, they quickly jimmied it and climbed through, closing the window behind them. _

_ Inside, a shape filled out the covers on the bed--a peacefully slumbering woman. Almost. Her chest rose and fell, but nothing rested on the pillow. The body under the covers had no head. _

_ The older figure glanced at the younger, a mere teenager. With no further prompting, he produced a bottle of gasoline and a canister of salt, sprinkling both over the woman in the bed. The older figure took his lighter and set the body on fire. _

_ Suddenly, a  _ thunk _ on the window. The younger figure twitched slightly, only to wither as the older turned to face him, his disapproving look barely visible in the darkness. Another  _ thunk _. An unearthly scream echoed through the night... _

.................

“No connection between the vics,” Sam reported in the morning. “Besides geography.”

Dean was still returning to consciousness, but he knew he had something important to say. “I know what this thing is,” he said.

“What? When did that happen?” asked Sam dubiously.

“Gimme Dad’s journal,” said Dean. “I think we hunted one of these.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“So helpful.”

“Just gimme the journal,” said Dean. Sam dug the journal out of the duffel and passed it to Dean, who began flipping through it. Eventually, he stopped on a page. NUKEKUBI was written across the top. An illustration of a detached head with motion lines behind it adorned the page.

“Nukekubi are women whose heads detach at night and fly about, drinking the blood of living humans,” read Sam. “They kill their victims by ripping out their throats. They can be killed by destroying their bodies before their heads return, or by any normal means of killing humans while the head is attached to the body. Native to Japan.”

“Think about it,” said Dean, “Human teeth. High-rise apartments. A flying head could get through that window no problem--but it must have caught its hair in the latch. It all fits.”

Sam nodded. “That would explain why there’s no connection--they’re victims of opportunity.”

“Whoever leaves their window open,” continued Dean.

“So how are we going to find her?” asked Sam.

“We look for a pattern in the locations,” said Dean. 

“If she’s leaving her house at night, she’s probably not going far--especially given how clustered the deaths are,” Sam commented.

“Great,” said Dean. “That narrows it down to all of downtown Bellevue.”

“Not necessarily,” said Sam. “We’re going back to the library.”

“Why?” asked Dean.

“Have you noticed the attacks circle the library? Maybe that’s not a coincidence,” said Sam. “Besides, I’d like to see if the library has anything on nukekubi.”

“Works for me,” said Dean.

Off they went to the library.


	4. Chapter 4

When they got to the library, Sam walked up to the librarian and started giving her some cover story or other. Dean figured he could handle that on his own, so he wandered. A picture hanging on the wall caught his eye, and he made his way over. There was something about it...

He walked over to Sam, who was still chatting with the librarian. Unfair. “Getting anywhere?” he asked.

Sam glared at him. “ _ This _ is my partner on our research project,” he said to the librarian.

“Can I borrow him for a second?” Dean asked the librarian, who nodded.

“What is it?” Sam asked when Dean had steered him away.

“There's something you need to see,” said Dean, leading him over to the picture on the wall.

“A bunch of kids’ drawings?” asked Sam doubtfully.

Huh. Dean hadn’t noticed the others.

“Look at this one,” said Dean, pointing. The drawing was in three parts. One part showed the view out a window, somewhere up high. The window frame was barely visible around the edges of the paper. Another part was of the streets at night, seen from above. The view included the Bellevue Library. The last part, though, was the most interesting. It showed an open window, clearly from the outside. The drawing was signed  _ Jenny Coleman _ .

“Check this out,” said Sam. They looked at a piece of paper above the drawings: CHINOOK MIDDLE SCHOOL DRAW YOUR DREAMS COMPETITION.

“No way,” said Dean. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, some kid dreams about flying, so what?”

“You’re the one who pointed it out,” Sam retorted. “I agree. It’s probably nothing. But we still need to talk to Jenny.”

Reluctantly, Dean nodded.

.............

Back in their motel room, Dean made some phone calls while Sam sat at his laptop. Within a half hour, they had Jenny’s address and her parents’ permission to meet their daughter at a coffee shop (with one of them present) to interview her about her drawing for an article in the Bellevue Reporter about the arts in schools. Jenny’s mother (with whom Dean spoke on the phone) had been understandably concerned about letting her daughter talk to a stranger with a serial killer on the loose, but eventually agreed (at what sounded, from the other end of the line, like Jenny’s insistence).

“You get this one,” said Sam when the meeting time rolled around. “They know your voice, and I have some research to do.”

“ _ More _ ?” Dean said. “You never stop.”

“I keep being interrupted,” Sam replied.

Dean shrugged. “I’ll be back soon. Hopefully...” he trailed off. There was really nothing to hope for, in this case.

“Yeah,” said Sam.

Dean went out the door and headed for the coffee shop.

.............

Dean walked into the coffee shop, and his heart sank.

A thirteen-year-old Japanese-looking girl sat at a table in the sparsely populated shop, next to a white woman who, based on the way they were leaning into each other, was almost certainly her mother. The girl wore jeans, an Iron Man T-shirt, and an incongruous silky green scarf around her neck. She had long, dark hair, which she kept pulled back in a low ponytail. As Dean made his way over to them, the girl’s eyes brightened, and she hopped up out of her seat.

“Are you the reporter?” she asked.

Dean nodded. “Are you Jenny Coleman?”

The girl--Jenny--nodded in return. “Yeah. You want to talk about art in schools?”

“That’s the general drift of the article, but I was hoping to talk about your art, specifically,” Dean replied.

“Well, make sure you put that art in schools is underfunded. And that it’s really important for people who might not like the traditional subjects to have a reason to come to school. But yeah, we can talk about my art. That picture I drew for the Draw Your Dreams competition, right?” said Jenny.

“Yes, that one,” said Dean. “It was really good.” He searched his brain for technical art terms he could use--why had Sam sent  _ him _ on this one again?--and came up empty. “Very nice use of color.”

“Thank you! I’d mostly done black-and-white before, so I wasn’t sure about that, especially with the low light, but I think it came out really nice,” mused Jenny.

“About the subject matter,” said Dean. “You dream about flying?”

“Yes, very vividly,” said Jenny.

“When did this start?” Dean asked. “I mean, have you had these dreams your whole life, or...”

“No,” said Jenny. “I mean, I’ve had occasional flying dreams my whole life, but for about two weeks now they've been really vivid, every night. I don't know why, but I'm grateful for the material.”

“Interesting. So, the drawing is of images from your dream, right?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” said Jenny.

Dean considered asking if there was anything else to those dreams, but decided that if the kid did dream about ripping people's throats out, she wasn't likely to admit it to a reporter. Or to her mother, for that matter. “Now, tell me about yourself. What are some interesting facts about you?”

“I haven't always been an artist,” said Jenny. “I have ADHD, and I never used to have the patience to sit down and draw. Then, last year, I got diagnosed and started on my meds, and I discovered I love it. I’ve been drawing pretty much every spare minute ever since--well, when I'm not reading comics,” she said, gesturing to her shirt.

“I love Iron Man,” said Dean. 

“He’s totally the best Marvel superhero,” said Jenny.

“I know, right?” said Dean. “My brother likes the Hulk.”

Jenny wrinkled her nose.

“Exactly,” said Dean.

“Oh, and I'm adopted,” said Jenny. “You can probably tell.” She gestured to her mom.

Dean nodded. “Where from?” he asked.

Jenny laughed. “Irvine, California.” she said. “We moved here when I was seven. My mom got a better job.”

Dean froze, then forced a smile. “Were you adopted as a baby?” he asked.

Jenny nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean's fake smile stayed firmly in place until the conversation was finally, finally over.

..................

“It's her,” said Dean when he got back to the motel room. “It's definitely her.”

Sam looked up from his laptop. “What makes you so sure?” he asked.

“Irvine, California, 1997,” said Dean. “We hunted a nukekubi with Dad. Also Irvine, around 1997--the Colemans adopt a baby girl.”

“Shit,” breathed Sam. “The curse, it's passed down mother to daughter. That must've been Jenny’s birth mom.”

“Jenny’s dreams about flying started about two weeks ago--”

“Same time as the first victim.”

“--and she wears a scarf around her neck. There anything in the lore about that?”

“Yes, actually,” said Sam. “Nukekubi often have marks on their necks that they cover with scarves.”

“Jesus,” muttered Dean. “A fucking kid.”

Sam could only agree.


	5. Chapter 5

“So,” said Dean, “what now?” He knew the answer. He just needed someone else to say it first.

“Actually,” said Sam, “I found something interesting in my research.”

“What?”

“There might be a cure.”

“Are you serious?”

“When I was reading up on nukekubi, I found a bunch of references to this old Japanese document, the  _ kasshi yawa _ . Apparently it has a story about either a nukekubi who was cured of her condition by the liver of a white dog, or a woman with some unrelated disease who was cured with the liver of a white dog, but who then gave birth to a nukekubi. Well, the stories agree she had a nukekubi daughter. They disagree on why.”

“Sounds complicated,” said Dean. “So, in the first story, was the daughter born before or after the woman ate the dog liver?”

“It’s not clear--wait, are you  _ listening _ to me?”

“Yes,” said Dean, a little indignant.

“No, I know that, it’s just--usually you’ve tuned me out at least once by now,” Sam continued. “So then I tried to track down the original document, but it was only available online in Japanese, so I found a good version through Stanford University, actually, I tricked the system into accepting my old credentials, and I sent it to Bobby to read.”

“Bobby can read Japanese?” said Dean.

“Yeah. That was less than an hour ago, so he won’t get back to me for a while,” said Sam.

Just then, Sam’s phone rang.

“Bobby?” Sam said hesitantly.

“Of course it’s me. I read that thing you sent me. Or the important part, at least. The passage is ambiguous. It could mean either of the things you said,” said Bobby.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m damn sure. Now go find out,” commanded Bobby as he hung up.

Sam explained the situation.

“Where are we going to find the liver of a white dog in downtown Bellevue?” asked Dean.

They looked at each other, held up one fist each, and brought them down three times into their open hands. 

Sam brought his fist down on Dean’s extended two fingers.

“Dammit,” muttered Dean. “More importantly, how are we going to convince her to eat it?

“How about we tell her the truth?” said Sam.

Dean looked at Sam like he was short a few marbles. “Yeah, because that’s worked out so well in the past.”

“As I recall, lying’s worked out even worse,” Sam pointed out.

And,  _ no _ . They were not touching that topic of conversation, or anything vaguely related, with a ten-foot  _ pole _ . Not when everything had finally,  _ finally _ settled into a fragile but steady equilibrium. “Fine,” said Dean. “Your way.”

“I’ll do it,” said Sam. “I can use whatever cover story I want, but they know you.”

Dean nodded.

Sam left for Jenny’s apartment.

..............

When Sam arrived at Jenny’s apartment building, he waited until someone coming out was careless or polite enough to hold the door and made his way in. The school information database had only given the name of her apartment building, not her room number. He got that information from someone working in the office via the application of his FBI badge. As he made his way up, Sam prayed silently.  _ Please let this work. Please. _

The elevator  _ dinged _ , and he arrived on Jenny’s floor. When an eye appeared at the peephole, Sam pressed his FBI badge to it. “FBI,” he said. “Open up.”

Sam didn’t recognize the girl who appeared behind the man who opened the door, but assumed she must be Jenny. He noted that the length of her hair was a match for the hair they’d found on the window latch, and that she was wearing a scarf around her neck, as Dean had mentioned. “I’m here about the murders that have been happening in this area,” he said.

“I don’t know anything about those,” said the man. “Do you, Margaret?”

“No,” said a woman with auburn hair and glasses, “I don’t.”

“It’s not you I’m here to talk to,” said Sam. “I think your daughter might have some information.”

“What?” said the woman--Margaret. “My daughter? That’s crazy.”

Sam held up his badge again. “Just let me talk to her.”

“Okay,” said the man. Jenny was already sitting on the couch, and gestured to a chair in the living room that was roughly across from it.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” asked Jenny.

“This is going to sound strange,” said Sam, “but have you ever heard of a nukekubi?”

Jenny blinked. “No.”

“Nukekubi are legends about women whose heads detach while they’re sleeping. The heads fly around while the bodies sleep, and sometimes they kill people. The person has no idea, of course, no control over this. The curse is passed down from mother to daughter, and, as far as we can tell, it activates at puberty. Nukekubi might have marks on their necks that appeared out of nowhere, dreams of flying, blood on their faces when they wake up...”

“Why are you telling my daughter this?” asked Margaret indignantly.

“Jenny,” said Sam, “we think the person behind those attacks might be you.”

The man and the woman looked outraged. “Get out of my house,” said the man.

“You’re not FBI, are you,” said the woman. “I’m calling the cops.”

“I’ll leave my card,” said Sam as he headed for the door. “If you need help, call.”

Wisely, he then skedaddled.

..............

“We’re not giving up,” said Dean. “We’re not.”

“You weren’t in there,” said Sam. “God knows, I don’t want to give up either, but I don’t see how we can get through to her parents.”

“This is on you,” said Dean. “If you hadn’t decided to go in there and dump the truth on them like a ton of bricks, maybe they would have come around.”

“What story could we possibly have come up with that would entail feeding dog liver to their daughter?” Sam asked.

“Something better than the truth, that’s for sure!” declared Dean.

They’d been arguing back and forth all evening about what to do. Dinner had been a terse, tense affair, and they watched the sun sink with a feeling of sinking dread. In the end, they both knew what would happen tonight. It was the job, and the job sucked major ass sometimes, but they were saving lives. They tried to hold on to that.

At eleven o’clock, they were sitting in their motel room, waiting, when Sam’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

There was shaky breathing on the other end. “It’s me,” said the voice. “This is Jenny. It’s me. Everything you said is true. It’s me.” Her words were cut off by a choked breath. She sounded like she was crying.

“Okay,” said Sam. “Jenny, it’s going to be okay. Where are you?”

“I’m in my room,” said Jenny. “I’ve locked the door and window, but I’m scared to go to sleep--it’s gonna happen again, isn’t it?”

“Listen, Jenny. Deep breaths, okay?” said Sam.

“Okay,” said Jenny.

“We might be able to cure you,” said Sam.

“We? Might?” asked Jenny.

“My brother and me. To be honest, we don’t know if this will work or not. But it should,” said Sam.

“Hang on,” said Jenny. “Is your brother that reporter?”

“Yeah, you got me,” said Sam.

“Then you like The Incredible Hulk better than Iron Man?” Jenny asked incredulously.

“Jenny, focus,” said Sam.

“Right. The cure. What is it?” asked Jenny.

“It’s pretty gross,” said Sam.

“Just tell me!” exclaimed Jenny.

“You have to eat the liver of a white dog,” said Sam.

Jenny took a big, shaky breath. “Okay. Where am I gonna get that?”

“We’ll bring it to you,” Sam replied with a look at Dean.

“But my parents...” Jenny trailed off.

“Let us worry about your parents, okay?” 

“Okay. When can you get it to me?” asked Jenny.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” Sam answered.

“Tomorrow?” Jenny sounded deeply upset.

“That’s because tomorrow, I’m pretty sure your parents will agree,” said Sam. “Jenny, I need you to be really brave and do something for me, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jenny. “What?”

“I need you to go to sleep,” said Sam.

“How?” asked Jenny. “As soon as I do, my head is going to wander around without my knowledge or permission and possibly eat people. That’s not a very relaxing thought.”

“If you’ve really locked down your room, you won’t hurt anyone,” said Sam. “And about the other thing... it’s creepy. I know. But just try.”

“Why?”

“Because...when you wake up, it’s gonna be obvious something was trying to get out,” said Sam.

“Then my parents will believe me?” asked Jenny.

“I hope so,” said Sam.

Dean made a give-me-the-phone gesture.

“I’m handing you over to my brother,” said Sam. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” said Jenny as the phone was transferred.

“Hey Jenny,” said Dean. “You and I know that Iron Man is the best Marvel superhero. Care to tell Sam here why?” He held the phone up to Sam’s ear while leaning in close himself to listen.

“Well,” said Jenny, “most of the other superheroes were  _ made _ , in some way. The Hulk had his gamma radiation, that was an accident. The Fantastic Four, cosmic rays in outer space, same thing. Captain America had super soldier serum, no one knew exactly what it would do, and he was recruited into that program anyway, he didn’t choose it. You could go on. Iron Man? He  _ chose _ to be what he is, and he created himself. He made the suit with his own hands and brain. Everything he can do, he can do because he was clever enough to make it happen--and every time he goes out and saves someone, it’s a choice. For a lot of the heroes, they don’t really have that, they just are what they are.”

“Wow,” said Sam. “But I think everybody has some kind of choice.”

“Yeah, but Iron Man still built his powers himself.”

“Think you could go to sleep now?” asked Dean.

“I’ll try,” said Jenny. “Bye.” She hung up.

After watching some crappy TV, Sam went to bed.

Dean went out to get a white dog’s liver.


	6. Chapter 6

They were expecting the phone call in the morning.

Margaret’s voice was on the line. “I don’t know who you are or what you want,” she hissed, “but get your ass over here. You have some explaining to do.”

“You on this one?” asked Dean.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Best keep questions to a minimum.”

The scene that greeted Sam when he arrived was, while far from unexpected, no less uncomfortable. Jenny was sitting on the couch, crying silently. Her father sat next to her with his arms around her protectively. Jenny’s mother, who had gotten up to answer the door, showed Sam to Jenny’s room.

The inside surface of the door was covered in deep gouges. The marks extended in uninterrupted lines from the top of the door to within a foot of the base. They had the exact size and shape of a set of human teeth.

“Jenny woke up with a dreadful headache and wood between her teeth,” said Margaret. “There’s no way she could have made those marks. She’s not strong enough, and they extend too far and too smoothly. But it happened.” She sighed. “I don’t believe you--but I believe Jenny. She told us everything--how she’s been waking up with blood on her face, how she’s never hungry the morning after a death--” she broke off and shuddered. “And those marks on her neck that just  _ appeared _ two weeks ago... I hate to say it, but I think you might be right.”

“We can cure her,” said Sam.

“She told me that too,” said Margaret. “She also told me you didn’t know if it would work or not.”

“We don’t,” said Sam. “But it’s the best we’ve got.”

Margaret sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but... okay.”

“Great,” said Sam. “I have what you need right here.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a plastic bag. “Don’t worry, it’s fresh.” He placed the bag on the counter. It squelched lightly.

Margaret looked at the bag. “So--I cook this and feed it to my daughter, and she gets better?” she asked.

“What’s going on?” asked Jenny’s father. “I’m Timothy, by the way. Call me Tim.” He turned to his wife. “Are we seriously talking about feeding this to our daughter on the word of a stranger?”

“I’m right here, Dad,” Jenny mumbled.

“At this point, we’re talking about nearly anything,” said Margaret.

Tim nodded.

“You can go now,” said Margaret to Sam. “And...” she paused. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Anytime.”

.............

The stakeout didn’t suck nearly as much as Dean had thought it would.

Of course, they were still waiting to find out if a thirteen-year-old girl was still a monster in need of putting down.  _ That _ part sucked. But the actual sitting-and-waiting part? Not so bad. Dean typically hated stakeouts nearly as much as research--the unending boredom, the need to pay attention to  _ nothing _ to prepare for the possibility of it turning into something for hours on end--but tonight, he was doing okay. Knowing he wasn’t going to be sleeping that night, Dean had taken a methylphenidate in the evening. He knew they were going on a stakeout, and he knew it kept him awake, settled and focused. He didn’t know if Sam had taken another. Couldn’t think of any reason why not. This stuff was magic (the good kind, not the actually-from-Satan kind). 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean was starting to wonder if everyone really reacted this way to methylphenidate, or if his reaction was unusually good. Sam didn’t seem to have changed much (then, Sam could focus better than just about anyone already--not much room for improvement there). He seemed a little wired, like he’d had a lot of coffee, but that was all. Not like he was seeing the world in a completely new way.

In the morning, a call came in to Sam’s phone.

“Hey,” said the voice on the other end. “It’s Jenny. It worked! I locked my window again and hung a sheet over my door, and it was still there in the morning. Oh, and the mark is gone from my neck,” she said.

“Are you sure you slept?” asked Sam.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She paused. “Thank you. Is your brother there?”

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“Thank him too.”

Sam turned to Dean. “Jenny says thank you.”

“I heard,” said Dean, taking the phone. “Hey Jenny, it’s me. You wear that Iron Man shirt with pride, okay?” he said. 

“Okay!” answered Jenny.

“Right, bye,” said Dean.

“Bye,” said Jenny, and hung up.

Sam sent out a silent prayer of thanks.

Dean did a fist pump.

..............

Castiel was busy.

He’d been looking for God amongst the sea of humanity (and there were  _ so many people _ to get through) for some time when an urgent prayer came through. Occupied as he was, Cas always tried to listen to the Winchesters and help them if he could, as he felt he owed them a great deal. Not to mention, he enjoyed their company, especially Dean’s. This prayer was from Sam (unsurprising, given his greater propensity toward prayer in general). The content, though, froze Cas in his tracks.

“Um. Hi, Cas. I have a problem. I’m worried about Dean. I think he might be possessed by Michael. He’s been acting weird lately, and I’m worried that’s why. I mean, it’s probably just those pills you gave us--the methylphenidate? Still, I really need some backup on this, just in case,” said Sam. “Thank you. Amen.”

No. It couldn’t be. If Michael had taken his true vessel, Cas would  _ know _ about it. Things would be a lot less peaceful than they were... Cas thought. Beyond prophecies, he didn’t exactly have a reference for the End of Days. Nonetheless, he appeared by the younger Winchester as quickly as possible.

“Where is your brother?” asked Cas.

“Inside, sleeping,” said Sam. They were standing in a motel parking lot. The streetlights cast a dim orange glow over the scene.

“Take me to him,” said Cas. He couldn’t feel any angelic energy, which he was certain he would if Michael were near, but he wanted to see Dean anyway. Just to be sure.

Dean was asleep in one of the room’s two beds. The other had obviously not been slept in. “Well?” asked Sam.

Cas’ dimming angelic senses could only make out three lights in the room--his own Grace and the souls of the Winchester brothers. Placing a hand on Dean’s forehead, Cas could feel no controlling influences working on the mind within.

“He is not possessed,” said Cas.

Sam took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said. “I just needed to be sure.”

At that moment, Dean sat up. He took in the sight of Castiel and Sam standing over him and groaned.

“Cas,” he said. “What have I told you about watching me sleep?”

“That you find it ‘creepy’ and want me to stop,” said Cas.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You could try listening,” he suggested. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Your brother was concerned you might have been possessed by Michael. I came here to reassure him,” said Cas.

“Dude,” said Dean. “What?”

“Well. you’ve been acting weird lately, and I had to make sure that wasn’t it,” said Sam apologetically.

Dean had a number of thoughts in response to that. He went with the one least likely to open a can of worms. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the methylphenidate. Stuff’s amazing.”

“That... actually explains a lot,” said Sam. “Dean, I think you have ADHD.”

“Isn’t that something just kids have?”

“Actually, no. That’s a common misconception. I read up when we got this stuff, and ADHD is a lifelong thing. If you had it as a kid, you’ll probably have it as an adult--and if you don’t think you do, it might just be harder to see since you’ve gotten better at working around it.”

“So... is that why I was never any good in school?” asked Dean, a little curious now despite still being annoyed.

“Probably. You kept losing track of assignments, right? And you could never pay attention to the teacher?”

“I had more important things to be thinking about,” said Dean. “But, yeah. Is this why I hate research?” Dean smiled. “I have an excuse now!”

“Not with the methylphenidate, you don’t,” Sam shot back.

Which reminded Dean of something. He turned to Cas, who by some miracle was still in the room. “Hey Cas,” he said. “You said there were other substances that would work to keep Michael and Lucifer from possessing us. Why’d you pick this one?”

“Dean,” said Cas. “I rebuilt your brain molecule by molecule. I held your soul and reconnected it to your brain and watched how these things together formed your mind. It would be impossible for me  _ not _ to know how this substance would affect you.”

Dean blinked.

“So...” he eventually said, “You knew I had ADHD and that this stuff was gonna help me?” Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On one hand, he felt better than he had in a long time. On the other, someone had given him something to alter his mind without telling him why or what it would do. When he’d thought it had just been about the end of the world, he’d been fine with it, but now...

“Yes,” said Cas. “I’ve made an effort to learn about humans who differ neurologically from the norm. I knew that methylphenidate would help you, and I therefore selected it from among a few options. Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Dean. “Thanks.” He could sort through how he felt later. Right now, Cas was just trying to help.

“Good.” Cas vanished.

Dean was tired, and confused, and definitely had a lot of thinking about things to do. The world was still ending. But maybe the end of the world could wait a little while.

For now, Dean went back to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know in the comments what you thought! Have a great day!


End file.
